


Haunted/Hunted

by philos_manthanein



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fictional Location, Ghosts, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Paranoia, Paranormal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 01:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14486232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philos_manthanein/pseuds/philos_manthanein
Summary: Waylon lives undercover and very unstable in a Chinese backwater and then the ghost of Miles Upshur ruins everything.





	1. Things That Scare Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hooboy it's been a while since I wrote anything for this fandom. (Yes I know I also have unfinished fics around here, shhhhh.) I had this idea practically kick in the doors and beg me to write it so I hope y'all enjoy it! Oh, also, the town is totally made up but based on a number of real-life locales that are similar.

One good thing about being the new guy in an absurdly small town is everyone immediately expects you to be weird. A foreigner, whether you moved just a few towns over or across the world, is always regarded with suspicion at first. Even if the new neighbors act friendly, chances are their hospitality is meant to hide their wariness. They want to gauge just how much of a threat you are to the community. Will you fit in? Are you crazy?

Waylon likes to think he threw everyone in Tangying a curveball by being resolutely hermetic. He doesn’t fit in and he is absolutely crazy, but he’s not a threat. His neighbors smile when he walks down the gravelly road, but they also give him a wide berth. It’s just what he wants; enigmatic solitude among steadily-familiar but still-unknown faces. 

Makes it easier to spot when something goes wrong, even if nothing has gone wrong yet. 

Tangying village used to have a bustling population of 1,000, until the local agricultural industry went bust and most people fled to more prosperous towns and cities across Yunnan Province. At least that’s the history Waylon has gathered in his ten years living in exile among the mostly-geriatric 50 or so people that remain.

It’s an utterly ruinous town with little worthwhile attractions. The local marketplace is held in the shell of what was once a one-room schoolhouse. Residents buy and sell the produce they grow at home and other essentials they buy from the municipalities like Kunming. In the summer some extended families come to visit and there’s usually some sort of party. Waylon is careful to avoid it at all costs.

There is landline telephone service, but Waylon doesn’t subscribe. The mail service comes through once a week, but he doesn’t receive anything. There’s over-the-air television and no internet; Waylon owns a small television but no computer so it works out. He can’t risk being traced, even this far gone from those who would search for him.

All in all Tangying is boring and secluded and falling apart at the seams. It’s perfect, really. 

He rents his mediocre home from a local couple, who don’t bother him much because he makes sure to pay on time but his decidedly weird nature creeps them out. Plus he’s fairly certain the husband thinks he’s an illegal refugee from the DPRK or something. Waylon is careful not to tell them he’s an American. He’s careful not to tell them much of anything. 

He brokered his new identity from someone on the dark web, which he promptly discarded once he made it into Yunnan. Now he has no papers, no real identity outside the made-up name he created on the fly when he realised he needed one. Nobody asks to see his documents; he’ll be fucked if they do. So maybe living on this knife’s edge isn’t so far off from being a refugee after all. 

Waylon channels his energy into his work fixing things for the local handyman, Mr. Ruan. He has to earn his keep somehow. Although his background gave him little in the way of practical engineering skills, he’s always been a fast learner. Of course, nothing quite prepared him more for improvising fast than escaping Mount Massive.

His stomach always recoils when he thinks about it. No matter how small the recollection, in an instant he’s flooded with a million memories and emotions. A sonic flash of anxiety clinging like an effluvial tar to all of his insides; coating so thick and acrid he can taste it in the back of his throat. His vision plays tricks on him, conjuring shadows and glimpses of people and abominations he knows are long dead but he’s still terrified of all the same. His ears hear voices that no longer exist.

It happens multiple times a day, each time making him twitch or whimper or talk to himself in order to bring him back to reality.Another reason why he prefers to be alone, and another reason why he feels lucky, with what little luck he has left.

When he arrived he didn’t speak a word of Mandarin, Southwestern or otherwise, but he was lucky that Mr. Ruan spoke enough English to help him. Waylon wouldn’t say he trusts the man, because he doesn’t trust anyone, but he has to pretend that he does. Mr. Ruan helped him find a home and doesn’t ask too many questions. He gives Waylon work repairing far outdated electronics and fixtures that he, in his old age, can’t quite manage anymore. 

Now Waylon knows enough of the language to communicate when he has to, but is still poor enough and strange enough that he’s still an outsider. He thinks it could be a downfall; if “they” come for him everyone in the village will know exactly where to point “them”. He’s not even sure who “they” are anymore, or if “they” even exist. But if “they” do, “they” will come to the little hovel with the surname Kim drawn on the door.

It makes sense in its senselessness, Waylon is utterly convinced.

His extreme paranoia has worked for a decade now. Though the solitude has done little to calm his mind, he’s been free of most actual threats to his physical well-being, even if he’s not too sure what the point is to living day-to-day. 

There has to be a reason. There has to be. Because if there isn’t then the losses that weigh down his heart with every breath mean nothing. He desperately needs it to mean something. 

For ten years he’s been living despite every nightmare and hallucination that says he should not. For ten years he’s managed to stay hidden from those that would have him dead, for retribution or worse. For ten years he’s tried to erase the ethereal scars of man-made monsters clawing around inside his brain.

And all it takes is a ghost to undo it all.


	2. Devil Don't You Fool Me

Waylon doesn’t believe in ghosts. He does believe in evil, how could he not? He believes that good and evil have nothing to do with spirituality, everything to do with personal morality, and when those things are intertwined the results can be catastrophic. He believes that modern day Machiavellian princes keep the world wrapped around their fingers, and when they are torn to shreds by the monsters they manufacture they deserve every fiery strand of suffering that tears through their flesh. 

He knows that monsters are real, but he doesn’t believe in ghosts. So obviously the spectre he finds in his house this humid spring day is a monster. Or a hallucination. But it’s certainly not a ghost.

“Boo.” The humanoid black mass says, its voice rasping like white noise on the radio.

Waylon tenses and his heartbeat locks in his throat. He doesn’t scream, though, because he’s seen this thing before. He’s never heard it speak, but it’s familiar enough in the space of his nightmares to seem familiar. 

If it’s real, he should be dead. But it stands there, droning. He can feel it staring at him though it lacks eyes. It’s more persistent than the shuddering glimpses he’s seen of it and others in the depths of his delusional breakdowns. It’s more docile than the nightmares, where it shreds him down to the very last atom.

It must be another hallucination, Waylon determines. So he ignores it and hopes it fades away soon. 

It doesn’t.

“Okay, not the reaction I was expecting.” The thing says, its hissing echo of a voice managing to sound both confused and amused.

This isn’t real, Waylon tells himself. He goes about his usual routine on the days he works in Mr. Ruan’s repair shop. He kicks off his shoes at the door and goes to the meager kitchenette. The black mass follows him, not walking but sort of gliding across the floor.

“Waylon Park.” It says.

Waylon ignores it. He wonders if his mind is breaking even more. He wonders if soon he won’t be able to keep his hallucinations and reality separate. Maybe if he thinks of something else it will go away; so he focuses on making a salad for dinner. He makes a note that he should go to the market soon because most of his vegetables are wilting or squishy.

“Waylon Park.” The hallucination speaks again.

Waylon thinks about other things he needs to pick up soon. Soap, adhesive tape, kerosene; he says each out in English and then Mandarin, repeating them to solidify the list in his brain. Maybe if he repeats them enough it will shut off whichever part of his mind is conjuring the not-ghost.

A black void shaped like a hand passes back and forth in front of his face. It’s sudden and it radiates cold and it makes him jump. His knife slips and digs into his left index finger.

“Shit!” He shouts, dropping the knife to the countertop and clutching the base of his injured finger. 

It bleeds, but not profusely. He grabs a clean rag from the folded pile near the sink and wraps it up.

“Whoops!” The hallucination says.

“Bandages.” Waylon mutters, still not acknowledging it, even though it’s becoming harder to do so by the minute. “Bandages…”

He digs at his memory for the translation, but he’s still reeling from the pain and the anxiety of the unreal creature standing too close and seeming disturbingly too-real. The air feels colder on his left side, where it hovers.

“You know I’m here.” It says.

“Bandages…” Waylon mumbles. “Bandages…”

“You can see me.” It insists.

“Bandages.” Waylon says louder. “What’s the word… What is it?!”

He starts to panic. The white noise the hallucination emits sounds louder. It encompasses him with the coldness. He feels pressure on his upper arms, like two freezing hands with long, icy fingers pressing into his skin through the material of his white t-shirt. 

“What is it? What is it? What is it?” Waylon’s breath hitches and heaves, no longer talking about bandages.

“A ghost.” The thing whispers, it’s breath stings cold needles against his nose.

Waylon opens his eyes but all he sees is the black, slightly translucent form of the monster. Its innards comprise small particles that vibrate in the air, like the TV static to match it’s ever-present noise. Like ants furiously swarming over a corpse. Waylon thinks of tiny robotic fleas.

“No.” Waylon shakes his head and closes his eyes and tells himself he’s just crazy, as if that could be more comforting somehow.

“Yes.” It says.

“No, you aren’t real.” Waylon tries to twist from its grip but the cold digs through his skin until his muscles seize and burn.

“You sure?” It asks with a taint of laughter clinging to its inhuman rasp.

“It’s in my head. You’re in my head. You’re nothing. You’re in my head.” Waylon rambles and tries to push past it.

“I could be.” The thing days pensively, and it releases its hold. “If you want me to be.”

Waylon doesn’t waste time trying to think about what that suggestion could possibly mean. He’s too terrified and confused. He darts out the front door of the house with such force its surprising the rickety, weathered door doesn’t pop off the hinges. 

It’s all too familiar a feeling; it immediately takes him back to those cluttered and decaying halls. He smells blood and rot. Hears howling and screaming and laughter. Hooks in his skin.

Waylon runs but the world is too wide. It feels too vast and there is nowhere to hide. The sun hangs low but still bright enough to illuminate the trees and dirt and grass. The white walls of long-abandoned homes and businesses are blinding as he rushes past. He loses the bloodied rag somewhere, dropping it as he dashes up the gravel road. Eyes are on him, he can feel them, and he doesn’t know if its the startled stares of his neighbors or the delusionary stares of dead inmates and guards. It doesn’t matter; he wants to get away all the same.

He’s breathless by the time he cuts through town and makes it to the river. The singular bridge that crosses it is a long ways downstream. He actually considers jumping in to get across but the current is so strong and he feels too weak. There’s no sign of anything chasing him now, and he’s not sure if anything was chasing him at all.

Maybe it’s over. Maybe whatever made him hallucinate that terrible thing is gone. Waylon lets out a cry that is equal parts relief and tortured and lets himself drop onto the lush grass of the riverbank.

For long minutes he sits there with the palms of his hands pressed tightly against his eyes. His breaths come in long, seething draws as he tries to steady his panicked hyperventilation. His heart still thrums erratically in his chest, aching so alarmingly he wonders if he’s actually having some sort of cardiac arrest. The calm babbling of river water lazily winding over and around algae-covered stones adds a surrealistic serenity to the turmoil twisting inside him. 

When he finally lowers his hands and opens his eyes the world is blurry and coated in noisy black.

“Fuckin’ boo, again.” The not-ghost says as it crouches in front of him.

Waylon feels his shock and anxiety finally boil over into nausea. He lurches over and vomits onto the grass. The thing recoils backwards to avoid it, hovering over the river, it’s misty lower limbs just inches above the water.

“Gross.” It says.

“Oh god.” Waylon pants then spits. He tries not to look at his pile of puke because it will absolutely make him throw up again. “This isn’t happening.”

“Except it is.” The not-ghost chimes in mockingly.

“It’s sentient.” Waylon says to himself. “They’re becoming sentient.”

He sits back on the grass, careful to scoot a good foot or so back from the sick. He rubs his palms over his eyes again and tries to steady his breathing. Thinking hard about what having a persistent hallucination means for his already shakey mental stability, he tries to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth and the cold air that signals the thing’s approach.

“Go away. Go away.” Waylon murmurs. “Go away.”

“No.” It says.

“Please.” Waylon nearly whines, aching from the mental and physical exhaustion.

“No.” It says again.

“Stop.” Waylon digs his fingernails into his own scalp, scratching deep as if the pain could snap him out of this delusion. It makes the wound on his finger throb.

“No.” It says once more.

“Why?!” Waylon shouts, his voice wavering, despondent. 

“You owe me.” It replies.

Waylon feels his stomach sink. For a moment he thinks he’ll puke again but his stomach is too empty anyway. He realises now what this is about.

“It’s my conscience.” He says out loud, though he’s more certain than ever that he’s having some sort of hallucinatory break-down.

At least he’s still sane enough to know that’s what it is. Small miracles.

“What?” The not-ghost asks.

“Just a hallucination. Because I feel guilty. Because I am guilty.” Waylon mumbles to himself, feeling his anxiety quell a little the more he talks himself down. 

“Wow, you’re nuts.” It says, floating next to him and settling on the grass as if it’s standing. The grass doesn’t move under its weight, however. 

“Yeah, I am. And you’re not real.” Waylon says. He gives a huffy sort of breath and smiles, which probably makes him look all the more crazy.

“Whatever, man. Fuck.” The thing sounds irritated. If it weren’t so bizarre and unwanted, Waylon could probably laugh at the personality his brain decided to project on this hallucination. “I’m still not going anywhere, Psycho.”

“Of course you won’t.” Waylon says as he finally gets to his feet. 

He knows it won’t go away, because his guilt has never faded. Even if the hallucination fades away he’ll still be left with the guilt and shame of his involvement with Murkoff; of the blood on his hands. It will fester and linger long after this manifestation leaves, or forms into something else. 

The sun has officially set. Pink and orange hues still hang onto the darkening blue of the horizon. Stars are beginning to dot the expanse overhead, twinkling between thin wispy white clouds. The river still turns, bubbling and swirling out towards the far-off sea. Waylon can hear his own heartbeat steadily returning to normal. He can hear the static noise of the not-ghost nearby, and he thinks if he unfocuses enough he wouldn’t hear it at all.

Turning, Waylon makes his way back towards Tangying, hoping that the neighbors that witnessed his insane flight will already be gone. If not, oh well. Maybe it will work in his favor, like his other disturbances. 

And his guilty conscience follows.


	3. Bad Things

In the intervening days Waylon finds himself wishing his brain would have conjured up a quieter, more sedentary illusion. The way he understands it, it would make sense that his conscience would be the nagging and irritating type. It’s what he deserves, in an abstract and self-hating way. Still, the not-ghost is as persistent as it is inconvenient. 

Waylon wakes early most days. He doesn’t sleep well, plagued by anxious thoughts and nasty nightmares as he is, so he’s often climbing out of bed long before the sun rises. He finds the Thing hovering, literally, near his bed. It has a knack for making the room cold, which he thinks is also a hallucination. 

It has to be a hallucination.

The Thing follows him around the house, commenting on everything. It criticizes the way he dresses, how his clothes are worn out and look dirty, even though he does wash them. Waylon even points out the washer tucked into the corner of his linen closet. It’s old and clunky, but it washes just fine with the amount of maintenance he’s put into it. He doesn’t have a dryer, though he doesn’t mind hanging his clothes outside. In a way, he’s being environmentally conscious. The Thing just says it makes his clean clothes dirty again, what with the dust on the breeze.

Waylon brushes his teeth and the Thing comments on the inefficiency of his technique. He washes his face and the Thing says he should shave because the stubble makes him look old. Waylon tries to ignore it, so it starts calling him “grandpa”. 

Grandpa, Loner, Crazy, Psycho, Asshole; all delightful nicknames from his undesired imaginary friend.

It follows him around as he dusts and sweeps, because Waylon has to keep himself busy to keep his thoughts from turning dark. When he leaves for Mr. Ruan’s shop, the Thing hovers after, making snarky and rude comments about the neighbors and ruins as they pass. Waylon keeps himself from responding out loud. Some of its observations are clever enough to make him want to laugh in spite of himself, though.

“Weren’t you some sort of computer guy?” It asked once, as Waylon picked through a bin of loose wires, looking for one of the right length so he wouldn’t have to unpackage a new spool.

Waylon didn’t reply.

“So you ran away from everything.” The Thing continued to muse. “Or at least you thought you did.”

Waylon could hear the smile in its voice, cutting.

For days now, the Thing has poked and prodded at him. It insults him and asks him questions it knows he won’t answer. It insists that he help, because it insists it’s a ghost, and Waylon refuses because he insists it’s anything but that. 

He insists and insists and insists. Until the Thing grows so frustrated and angry it proves itself, explosively. 

Waylon is watching some sort of live pop performance on his dinky little television when it happens. It’s a flat screen, but an older model, so it’s pretty chunky anyway. He’s eating some food Mr. Ruan practically forced him to take home. He’s not sure what it’s called, some combination of rice and sauteed vegetables that’s simple but far more delicious than anything he makes for himself. The not-ghost is sitting, but not sitting, on the arm of his worn, burgundy sofa.

It’s a blessedly quiet evening, until it’s not.

The TV screen starts to glitch out. Fuzz and twitching lines smear the image of the peppy female group currently dancing on stage. Waylon thinks it must be a problem with the tuner or signal. The electricity always goes weird in bad weather. Except the weather outside is fine and clear. He doesn’t even hear a breeze.

He thinks he shouldn’t, but he glances at the Thing anyway. It has its arms crossed and its featureless head appears to be facing the television. It’s so silent. It’s the most mute it’s ever been since the day it appeared. But the static, that ever-present white noise echoing from its form, grows.

The hissing increases exponentially, until it’s all but screaming in Waylon’s ears. Pulse jumping to a fearful race, Waylon drops his bowl of food and covers his ears. He jumps up from the sofa, sending the bowl and food clattering in a mess to the floor.

“Stop!” Waylon shouts.

It doesn’t. The static grows so loud it becomes a high-pitched squealing tone. No matter how hard he presses his palms against his ears, the sound penetrates until it feels like it’s piercing his skull and worming inside his brain. He can smell something caustic, like burning chemicals. For a moment he thinks the noise is really damaging his senses. Then he notices it’s coming from his television.

The screen is cracked, bleeding black liquid crystal from the fracture. Smoke curls from the top. What was once music is crackling and distorted, like a slowing record, until it’s no longer music but another hum of noise slipping like sand through his white tense fingers and red ears.

“STOP!” Waylon tries to shout over it. The smoke catches in his throat. He coughs loudly and his stomach turns.

The blistering noise and the astringent taste on his tongue wrench his nerves and he doubles over from the agony. Something warm drips from his nose to the floor. The smell and taste of blood and burning plastic. 

Finally, the television snaps apart. The smouldering pieces fly in random directions. Some bash against the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. One part smashes through the window to the right of the front door. 

One piece sails into Waylon, who doesn’t see it, so it slams into his right shoulder, sticking and burning his skin. He jumps, reactively smacking it off, but it still leaves a jagged mark of heat.

It’s still then. His ears ache, so abused by noise they ring. He can’t hear his own wheezing breaths or hacking cough. His hands shake as he lowers them from his ears. The flesh of his palms feel wet, and when he looks at them he can see they’re covered in blood. 

He feels so cold he shivers. His pulse is so heavy and fast he can see it in the involuntary twitches of his terrified fingers.

Mind racing with jumbled incoherencies, Waylon can’t stop thinking long enough to actually think about what’s happening. His instinct is to run, but he feels frozen like his limbs are more solid than concrete. His ears are still ringing, but through the ringing comes the disjointed voice he’s grown too used to too soon.

“My name is Miles Upshur. And I’m fucking real.”

“Oh god I-” Waylon tries to speak but his throat is still raw and burning, so he chokes and coughs. 

His eyes burn too, stinging with tears that are both physical pain and emotional upheaval. By the time he can stand to open them, by the time the air feels once again clean in his lungs, he’s alone. The light breeze blowing through the broken window is warm against his skin. The blood trails on his mouth, chin, and the sides of his neck are drying. The ringing stops. The smoke clears.

The ghost is gone.


End file.
